


O Sherpherd, My Shepherd

by thepizzasitter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Blood and Gore, Dubious Consent, Hell Fic, Hurt No Comfort, Lucifer torturing the life out of Michael and doing terrible things, Lucifer's Cage, M/M, Michifer - Freeform, Torture, and Michael learns to like it, in a bad bad way, it was a gift fic on tumblr
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-04
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:07:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,326
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1167914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thepizzasitter/pseuds/thepizzasitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Surely my goodness and love will follow you all the days of your life,” Lucifer whispers to Michael, tugging at the chain on his neck playfully, sighing happily when Michael bares his throat to be bled by the spikes adorning it. In The Cage, aeons will pass, and in the span of four earthly minutes, Michael--Destroyer of Legions, General of The Heavenly Host, First Born, and Good Son--will exist no more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Sherpherd, My Shepherd

**Author's Note:**

> A gift fic I wrote for kawaiiest-angel-in-the-garrison on Tumblr. It's like....really, really graphic so read at your own risk. Also ridiculously blasphemous because it's Lucifer. I am probably going to Hell for this.

_“The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”_

It burns me, Father, it burns with excruciating cold and I will not have time to be razed to ashes—I am suffocating.

Michael’s scream is no louder than the ones that had come before in his eternity here. Not yet. He has not broken yet, but he will. He knows it, Lucifer knows it, and perhaps they would both welcome it. The general had passed ‘exhausted’ years ago.

There is so much Grace, spilled over the edges of a stone pyre, a mocking altar built for the favor of The King. It’s like blood, rivulets and tides of a forgotten soldier’s blood, left to stain and crack the thirsty ground further. His halo had been shattered and its fragmented shards were driven into his hands and feet like the Christ Child. Humiliated and naked on his pyre, his own blade pierced his side and left him writhing in a perpetual state of agony.

“Thousands of years, brother mine,” Lucifer whispers happily, gaze almost tender as it lingers over his brother’s body, gutted—split open wide for him—essence seeping out of him and dangling along the cruel stone where he is splayed. His wings are bent at impossibly painful angles, pierced through with the rusted hooks and great shafts of cracked bone for every place they were broken. “Thousands I have waited to see you again and thousands that we will spend together in our raptures.”

One of Michael’s wings—his pride and the only feature that he had once taken pleasure in caring for—is torn entirely from his back, unseen vicious fingers clawing the feathers out in great handfuls and bloodying the sheets of skin below, leaving a gory stump behind as Michael’s Voice pierces the air and kills a legion of demons two Stairs up.

“ _He makes me lie down in green pastures, he leads me beside quiet waters, he refreshes my soul_ ,” he gasps, weeping and continuing to call upon his Father, knowing there was no one coming for him. He has been forgotten, but he will take comfort in it anyways.

_I do not lie in green pastures, nor the cool waters and sweet sun of your affections. I do not dwell in the sacred space of Your love and delight. No, that was not my place. I am the First Born, doomed to fall to plague and ruin, and I know this. Like the Christ Child, I will be torn asunder for Your Glory and Name. I will not know Your touch when You return to restore what was mine. But then…_

I never have.

“Your tongue is golden, brother. It speaks the songs of home I thought I’d never hear again,” Lucifer says sweetly, his own Voice musical and searing deep into Michael’s Grace as it once had. Barely a day and forever ago, it seems. It has yet to stop making the general’s entire being quake and bow further into the chains that bound him. “But it hasn’t yet spoken of submission as your body has already done.”

Shame, shame and guilt and _no, cannot spread wider for him, not a submissive angel not a mate to be mounted—an equal, Father damn me._

He watches with a fascinated horror as Lucifer saunters forward to grip his jaw, forcing his mouth open. He draws a ragged blade from his thigh and begins to meticulously slit at the sides of his mouth. His shrieks of pain last only until his tongue hits the floor along with a flood of tears and useless cries for mercy.

“Perhaps you can have it back when you put it to better use,” Lucifer says nonchalantly, brushing away the tears and pushing the blood and Grace pouring from Michael’s mouth to smear along his cheeks and into his eyes. Michael cries out ineffectually when another wing is torn from his back.

_He guides me along the right paths for His name’s sake. Even though I walk through the Valley of the Shadow of Death, I will fear no evil, for you are with me—_

But you aren’t. Not here, in this dread place. I am alone, without a rod and a staff to comfort me. There will be no table or Holy Oil to anoint my head, not after this. I am cast out, fallen, and perhaps I was nothing but that from the Beginning. A dead man walking may still live, but I have fallen into Shadow. I have no place.

“ _Here_ ,” Lucifer hisses, and draws his brother up to slide his tongue into the gaping mess of Michael’s mouth, drinking the blood and the scream of agony it inspires. “Here is your place, Michael. All the days of Life beyond life, this is where you will dwell. With _me_ , in abandon to all but me, you will serve, you will obey, you will submit.” His hands are gentle as they slide a carving blade along his throat. He listens to the gurgling sound of blood that is spilling and will continue to spill, forever and ever, in this illusion of humanity that is braced and framed by their immortality. Michael’s blood and his screams will never run dry-- _a fountain of Eternal Life._

“You will say yes. Have I not proven, cherished one, that _everyone_ does in the end?”

Michael is uncertain how it is he can feel Lucifer’s Grace invade him, for that well should have run dry before Lucifer hit the ground ageless aeons ago, but it pushes into him nonetheless, saturating his own Grace and twining as intimately as it once did. Long ago when they were told the lie that they would never separate. They were forever linked, yoked in eternal bliss and comfort in the the courts of Heaven.

In truth, the bliss had been the only lie they were told: a courtesy of their merciful Father.

Perhaps it is pain he feels as he watches his own Grace be pumped out of him, flooded onto the floor. He wonders at the sensation while he pleads for it to stop, for Lucifer to not do this thing, this terrible act of betrayal when his belly is split wide open and his limbs scattered to the corners of this Cage and his wings nothing more than gouged, fleshy masses.

“Do not speak to me of betrayal, _brother_ ,” Lucifer hisses, but it matters not.

His tongue lies on the floor, useless to him and he cannot speak.

He can only scream. Scream, and scream, and scream, and scream, and Lucifer laughs when they find a rapture that is a horrifying, mocking echo of the days of their youth. His Voice is beautiful, saturated with such perfect, ugly bitterness. Michael drinks it in like the fermented wine Christ was offered, and thinks he understands why it had taken much for his step brother to turn his head aside and refuse it.

Michael has no such restraint. Not anymore. In the space of thousands of years and four earthly minutes, Michael has broken irreparably.

He doesn’t know if he begs for mercy or for more now.

_I am forsaken._

“You are _forgiven_.” The voice of his Creator is perfect. He is perfect, as he carves his Mark into Michael’s ribs and Grace and forehead.

All of Heaven watches and weeps and moans, tearing their robes and falling to the edges of an empty Throne, as The First pierces his ear with an awl in submission to The Morningstar.

“ _Surely my goodness and love will follow you all the days of your life_ ,” Lucifer whispers to Michael, tugging at the chain on his neck playfully, sighing happily when Michael bares his throat to be bled by the spikes adorning it.

Half-lifeless eyes smile adoringly at Lucifer, for his ruined mouth will not stand the task, and Michael counts himself as blessed.

_And I will dwell in the House of My Lord forever._


End file.
